


Maid in America

by lousy_science



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics), Suicide Squad (2016), Suicide Squad (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Harley/Ivy - Freeform, Domestic Fluff, House Cleaning, M/M, dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: Floyd Lawton needs a housekeeper. Rick Flag needs a job. Their rocky road to domestic bliss involves guns, bleach, organic vegetables, and brunch with Harley Quinn.





	1. Chapter 1

Floyd Lawton liked to take a bath at the end of his week. He had a huge tub installed in his apartment, with marble tiles, his bottle of Moroccan Rose bath oil, a nice little space to rest his martini, the cigar humidor within reach, a flat screen up on the wall where he could watch his Ken Burns documentaries. 

9pm on a Friday evening should have found him naked but for creamy cappuccino-layer of bubbles and a smile. Instead, he was in sweaty gym shorts looking down at the greying liquid pooled at the bottom of his bath, and the streaks of green cleanser that had been shaken all over the sides. It was as if someone had decided to clean up by the most inefficient process ever, then abandoned the job half way through. He could see little curlicues of pubes and nail clippings decorating the surface water. 

That afternoon his phone had beeped with a message from the housecleaning agency, and the voicemail had been a near-identical match to the last one. _Sorry Mr. Lawton, we are afraid that your current cleaner has terminated her contract with our agency and we have no suitable replacement._ He’d been paying Lucinda twice the going rate, too. 

 

“I need a maid. Last one quit on me last week, and Zoe is coming over next weekend.”

“What, you too big of a man to pick up a mop?”

“As it happens, Harley, I am extremely gifted with handling mops, brooms, and am an absolute demon with a Swifter. Pass the salt, Digger.”

Digger hefted over the salt canister from the far end of the table, where he was always banished during brunch for showing up hungover, dishevelled, surrounded by a cloud of B.O., and in full possession of his personality. “Wazzit, the issue with your ex-missus again?”

Tatsu took a bite of her waffles. “What does she have to do with your maid?”

“Tell her the whole story, Floyd, while I get some more coffee.” Harley was already waving to the waitress. 

Floyd said, “The last thing you need is more coffee,” and began cutting up his bacon and eggs. Tatsu was a new addition to their post-gym Saturday morning brunch group. Harley had been working on her to come along since she’d first shown up in one of her Zumba classes. It had taken time, but Harley’s relentless steamroller of friendliness had eventually made the shy widow succumb and start eating out with them. Whether it was Digger’s charm and good looks, or the incredible waffles served at Ivy’s Diner, she kept coming back. 

It was probably the waffles. 

“Part of my divorce settlement requires me to have a full-time housekeeper, to keep my apartment quote-unquote ‘suitable for a child’. If I don’t meet that, or any of the other ridiculous requirements specified by my ex’s lawyers, I’m in danger of losing access to my daughter. Problem is, my ex-wife figured it’s a good loophole. So she’s sabotaged my last three attempts at hiring a new cleaner.”

Tatsu looked shocked enough to stop eating. Harley was ignoring them both, still waggling her arm in the air like she was trying to dislocate it.

“She doesn’t want you to see your daughter?”

“No,” Floyd wiped his mouth with a napkin. “She doesn’t mind me seeing Zoe. But she wants more money. Not for child support, mind you; she’s got herself a loser boyfriend with a gambling habit.”

A server was approaching the table, carrying a tray with four tiny espresso cups on it. Harley squealed and clapped her hands.

“Here’s your coffee, sunshine. Thought I’d check in on my favorite customers.”

Floyd made introductions. “Tatsu, this is Ivy, she runs the place.”

Harley provided Ivy with a whirlwind update. “Tatsu does martial arts and moved to the city a year ago, Floyd’s trying to find a housekeeper yet again, Digger thought he’d lost his unicorn but it showed up again.”

Ivy dragged her eyes off Harley to look over at Floyd. “A housekeeper?” 

“You know anyone?”

“I know lots of people, Mr. Lawton. Come talk to me later.”

 

After paying the bill, Floyd found Ivy watering the plants in front of the diner. “So, tell me about this cleaner you know?”

Ivy patted the soil around a fern. “There’s a guy named Rick who’s looking for work. I’ve been waiting to see if there’s an opening here but my roster is full.” 

Floyd had not expected a guy. He checked himself for internal sexism. Ivy continued, “He’s a friend of one of my line cooks, did some work for me when I was moving my rock garden. Hard worker, kind of quiet. Ex-military, and it shows. Left the army but it hasn’t left him, you know the kind.”

“PTSD?”

Ivy shook her head noncommittally. “He sure seems down about something, but there’s more than enough reasons to feel bad about the world.”

“Do I know this friend of his?”

“Chato, the guy who does burgers just the way you like.”

“The tattoo dude?” Floyd had always gotten on with the tattoo dude. Quiet, polite, grilled a damn fine burger. “So what’s Rick’s situation now?”

“Chato says he works when he can. Doesn’t want to ask for a hand-out, just wants a job.” 

Floyd mulled it over. He didn’t want Zoe around some Travis Bickle type, but there was no reason he had to be in the apartment when Zoe was there. At the very least, having this guy on the payroll for a month would tide him over until he got someone permanent in. Floyd needed the time - work was slammed. 

And Floyd had known a lot of vets who struggled getting the hang of the normal world, whatever the hell normal was meant to be. If this Rick fellow could be trusted to protect the country, he could probably be trusted to clean Floyd’s tub. 

Taking out his phone, Floyd copied the number Ivy gave him and said thanks. “By the way, when you going to put Harley out of her misery and ask her out?”

Ivy arched an eyebrow. “Who said she was miserable? And isn’t she with that guy?”

Floyd smiled at her. “That guy’s the one who’s been making her miserable, so she’s single at the moment. I’m just sayin’.”

 

The next day Rick Flag knocked on Floyd’s door at exactly thirteen hundred hours. That was what his text said he would do, and Floyd, who’d watched him on the security cameras enter the building, check in at his apartment block’s reception, and walk up the stairs twenty minutes ago, wondered just what he’d been thinking about to kill the time until lifting his hand and knocking. 

He opened the door and smiled. “Hi. Rick, right?”

“Hello, Mr. Lawton.”

Rick did not smile. Rick looked tightly wound. He was tall, eye level with Floyd, but with a baseball cap pulled far down his face, and wearing a baggy zip-up coat over khakis. His shoulders were stiff and pushed back, and when Floyd waved him inside he marched straight into the reception area and clasped his hands behind his back, looking straight ahead as if he was fascinated by the hall cupboard. 

Floyd saw something in Rick’s locked-up body language. It was more than just military training, there was nervousness and an inner conflict. Like every instinct he had was to get the hell out of there, but he was applying all his force of will to stay put. 

“So, like I said on the phone, it’s a cleaning job.”

Rick’s hand shot out from behind his back, holding a manila envelope. “My resume.”

“Ah. Right.” Floyd took it out and looked over the bullet points. Military academy, graduated top of his class; then into the army for the next eighteen years. There was no reason given for leaving the service, but a big gap in the timeline emerged, with a smattering of odd-jobs listed from the last three months. Floyd had heard enough from Ivy to fill in some of the blanks, but he was still curious about just what had happened to this hyper-stressed man standing in his home.

“Well, this here says that you’re a bomb disposal expert and can speak conversational Farsi. Colonel Flag, I think you may be overqualified - ”

“Rick. It’s Rick. I’m not a Colonel anymore.” He bend his head down for a moment, then pulled the cap off his head and looked back at Floyd. “I just want to work. I’ve scrubbed a lot of floors, sir, and I can do anything else the job requires.” 

“OK, first of all - ” Floyd handed Rick back his resume, “It’s Floyd. Not sir or Mr. Lawton. Second of all, sometimes this job requires cleaning up after a twelve-year-old’s slumber party, and there’s no amount of Farsi that will prepare you for washing hair mascara blended with chocolate milk stains from a six hundred-count bed sheet.”

Rick blinked. “Hair mascara?”

“It’s like mascara for your eyelashes, but for your hair.” Floyd waggled his fingers at his bald head to demonstrate. Rick’s brow furrowed further. 

“Look, don’t worry about it right now. Let me show you around.” 

He walked past Rick into the hallway. The apartment was a 1940s build that had been renovated several times, leaving high ceilings and wide doorways, with intricate mosaic tiling on the floor that picked up the sound of Rick’s work boots walking behind him. 

“So, this is the kitchen. I had one of those smart fridges that orders your milk for you, but got rid of it when Zoe - my daughter - worked out how to program it to order her favorite ice cream flavor instead of mine.”

Rick looked around at the high-end appliances and picture window above the sink that looked out over Gotham Park. Floyd figured he was calculating how much he could charge for services, but instead he asked, “She’s the one with the hair mascara?”

“Yes, but don’t worry - you and her won’t be crossing paths. I’m after someone to work on the days I don’t have custody, which is every second weekend from Thursday night to Monday morning.”

Rick nodded, still looking worried, and Floyd carried on the tour. 

“What happened to your other housekeepers?”

Floyd, who was walking them through the hallway, replied casually, “Oh, they got freaked out.”

Rick immediately stopped. Floyd could hear him crossing his arms. “Freaked out by what?”

Turning to smile at him, Floyd stood next to a doorway in the hall. “By this.” 

Scanning his thumbprint on the sensor next to the handle, Floyd stood aside as the reinforced door slid open and the lights blinked on in the small wood-panelled room. It was an almost perfect cube, with every surface covered in guns.

Rick walked in slowly, his hands glued to his side, but Floyd could tell he’s making a beeline for something in particular. Leaning on the doorframe, he watched Rick’s eyes dart around, getting the lay of Floyd’s collection, before he moved to stand in front of the Gomez-Fracklin HT7000. 

He could hear Rick exhale slowly before saying, “This an original?”

“You bet.”

“They only made a thousand of these,”

“And,” Floyd picked up the sentence, “nine hundred of those are exclusively used by the American military. But a few are in the hands of civilians. It’s legal - I have all my paperwork, I assure you, Colonel.”

Dragging his eyes off the rifle, Rick looked at Floyd. “Just Rick. Please.”

“Sorry, of course. Rick. You won’t have to enter this room ever again - I keep everything here in condition myself. No offense, you know, but these are my babies.”

For the first time since meeting Floyd, Rick’s face relaxed into an expression that was more human and less deer-in-the-headlights. “Of course. You have an excellent collection, Mr. Lawto- _Floyd_.”

“You freaked out yet?”

Rick didn’t bother to reply, just followed him out of the door with one last, longing look behind him. 

After reviewing the bathroom and Floyd’s tub demands, he pointed at a closed door across the hallway and said, “Zoe’s room. She’s responsible for tidying it herself. No reason for you to ever be in there.”

Rick nodded and ran a hand over a bookcase, the one Floyd put in the hallway after Zoe filled up the one in her room, and made to say something, then stopped.

“What?” 

“I remember having to read this when I was in 8th grade.”

It was a copy of The Westing Game. “She’s 12. That’s one of her favorites.”

“It was one of mine, too.”

 

After Rick had completed two supervised cleaning shifts of his apartment, Floyd had no problems passing over a set of house keys and a contract for six month’s work to Rick. In less a week, he had made quite the impression - as a tall guy, Floyd was used to seeing the dusty layers that settled in places most people couldn’t reach or see. Now his shelves all passed the white glove test. 

“Six months takes us to Christmas. If you need to give notice in December, please give me at least two weeks - it’s always bananapants that time of year.” Rick nodded ferociously, and cleared his throat. “Thank you for the opportunity. I appreciate it.”

Floyd thought this could be the time to ask Rick just what had happened to him, but he saw the nerves still keeping his eyes down, and decided to ask him if he wanted some iced tea instead. 

They stood around the kitchen and worked out what hours would be optimal. Floyd explained his routine. “On days when I have Zoe, I use flexi-time, so I can usually pick her up from school. On days I don’t, I’ll work late - I go to the gym then straight to the office.”

“Where do you work?”

“A private corporate consultancy firm called Belle Reve. Most people haven’t heard of it. Frankly, you don’t want to have heard of us - once you call us in, it’s because you need something drastic taken care of. My boss is a woman who you call when your company has run out of options. I work as her chief auditor; I go through a company’s records until I find the smoking gun, you might say. Some of the corporate lawyers on our team call me ‘Deadshot’.” 

“So, you’re an accountant.”

Floyd pointed his finger at Rick. “I’m a _forensic_ accountant.”

“Putting ‘forensic’ ahead of it doesn’t make it sound any cooler.”

“Being nicknamed ‘Deadshot’ is cool.” Floyd realised that he was grasping at straws to prove himself to his new cleaning lady. 

“Sure it is.” His new cleaning lady almost smiled at him, before taking his empty glass to the sink and briskly washing it. 

 

Things changed in the Lawton residence soon after Rick started working there. Things started to get cleaner. _Much_ cleaner. 

Zoe had noticed it after Rick’s first week of probation, pointing out that all the magazines on the coffee table (mostly Guns & Ammo Monthly and Teen Vogue) weren’t just neatly placed together, they were now stacked in chronological order. 

Floyd hadn’t ever been aware that the lines of grouting between the kitchen tiles were white, so it was a mild shock to see them one morning as he drank orange juice from a crystal-clear glass. He started keeping a quarter on his bedside table to bounce off the sheets, just to see how tightly they were folded. 

His Friday night baths were now idyllic. Rick had wrought some sort of magic to his towels, which were extra fluffy, and decanted his beard oil into a glass jar which made application much easier. Lying back in the bubbles, he thought about the conversation he’d had with Amanda Waller that day in the office. 

Floyd kept Amanda updated on events in his life, big and small, figuring she probably knew them already, but also knowing that for all her ruthlessness, Amanda was one of the best people he knew to get advice from. 

She had asked him flat-out, “Do you know why he left the army?”

Floyd shook his head. “Sensitive subject. I asked Ivy, who asked Chato, who said it was due to internal politics. Which could mean anything.”

Amanda tilted her head up ever so slightly, and because Floyd knew her about as well as any of her employees, and most likely better than most people ever did, he knew that meant that she was formulating a plan. 

There was nothing in the world Amanda Waller loved more than finding out someone else’s secrets. In fact, it was kind of what Floyd had been aiming for the moment he opened his mouth to discuss Rick Flag. 

 

It was a burning hot day in August when Floyd walked in on Rick scrubbing the bathroom floor in nothing but a pair of shorts. 

There were several notable things about the situation: the smell of whatever Rick was using was so much better than the old floor cleaner the other housekeepers had been using, there was a digital radio playing some terrible 80s hair metal ballad, and Rick favored an old-fashioned scrubbing brush instead of the mop. But Floyd only took those points in after getting a long, hard look at Rick’s body. Back and front, because once his shadow fell across the floor Rick swung around on his knees. 

Floyd told him, “I decided to work from home this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Rick nodded slowly. “OK. You need anything from me?”

“I think I’m good.” Floyd swallowed, one hand on the door. He was on his way out when he turned back. 

“Flag, you play ball any?”

“Huh?”

“There’s a court two blocks over. Was thinking, if I get all my stuff done by five, I’d go shoot some hoops. Wanna come?”

Rick rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. “Sounds… yeah. I would. Thanks.”

“Right. I’ll be at my desk, when it’s five come on in.”

By the time five o’clock came around, Rick had put a t-shirt back on. It was still tight enough around his arms to show how thick his biceps were, and when he did a jump shot it rode up over his lower back. They were fairly evenly matched on the court, Rick faster but Floyd had better aim. Floyd was relieved that Rick was competitive, he was too, and it would be no fun playing with a guy trying to suck up to his boss by not trying hard enough. 

A couple of young guys from the block showed and challenged them to two-on-two, and how about they put a little money on it? Rick and Floyd shared a look, knowing that they thought that just because they were young they were invincible. Between them, they had fun taking them down. 

“Yes! 6-1 to the Codgers!” Rick held up his palm for Floyd to smack. Hi-fiving him back, Floyd gave a little speech about age and guile winning over youthful exuberance, which was greeted with eyerolls and “You just got lucky, old man.”

Floyd and Rick celebrated their luck at a neighborhood bar, one that was slightly less upscale than most of the places nearby. Eating potato skins covered in sour cream and drinking cold beer, they discussed game theory, and Floyd was tickled to find out that Rick was a numbers nerd just like him. 

“What really happened with your last maid?” Flag asked him.

“My ex encouraged her to quit. Told her about my gun collection, said I was unstable, a whole line of garbage. She just wanted to get more alimony out of me. I’d go back to court to get increased custody, but not until Zoe’s settled in high school. I don’t want her to have to deal with that drama.”

Rick nodded, and let Floyd change the subject. 

 

By next week, Rick had found out how much Floyd’s laundry service was costing him and threw a very manly, grown-up shitfit. “It’s a waste of money, and they are using caustic chemicals that could cause skin irritation.”

“Fine, you can do it.”

Rick didn’t seem to hear him. “And they don’t deliver on time, I had to wait thirty minutes for the last drop-off, and all the sheets needed re-ironing.”

“Add it to your hours and send me the updated total, plus extra for any resources.”

“Not to mention, they mix colors - wait, extra?”

“In fact,” Floyd pulled out his phone, “Why don’t we set you up with a debit card to use for all household purchases? Since you insist on using that organic shit that smells all fruity.”

“It’s just more economically efficient - ”

“I am not getting roped into another conversation about tea tree oil and baking soda, Flag.”

Shortly after that, Floyd decided that if he trusted a man with his underwear, he trusted him enough to meet his daughter. 

“Zoe, meet Rick. He’s the one who sorted our spice rack by alphabetic order.”

“Hello, Rick.”

“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Miss Lawton.”

Zoe extended her hand, which Rick shook gently but seriously. His daughter was an earnest, sensitive soul, naturally disposed to formality. Floyd should have guessed that Rick’s military uprightness would appeal to her. 

“Thank you for sewing up the hem on my school uniform.”

Rick kept his chin low to his chest, his hands moving behind his back in his typical pose. “It was nothing. Five minute job.”

“And Dad said you were the one who got the grape juice stain out of my blouse.”

“It was simply understanding how the sugar acid molecules react to the fabric. I just re-calibrated the effect to reverse it. Plus, a spot of bleach.” 

Before long, the two of them were doing needlework together on the couch, Rick carefully explaining the difference between a slip stitch and a satin stitch. Floyd watched them, aware that some sort of collaboration was taking place, but not sure how it would emerge. Rick had never mentioned having any childcare training, but he treated Zoe with respect, only calling her by her first name when she insisted on it. 

Floyd should have seen it coming, but the two of them swiftly ganged up on him on various household matters that Floyd, head of the home, felt he should have been entitled to final say over. But between his daughter and his six-foot-tall, built-like-a-brickhouse housemaid, he was railroaded into agreeing to Meatfree Mondays, organic vegetables, and participating in a “digital detox” on weekends.

The organic vegetables came as part of a foodbox service that Zoe found on the internet and wanted to sign up to. Soon Floyd was coming home and witnessing Rick in the kitchen, holding up a kohlrabi in one hand while furiously Googling recipes with the other. He wasn’t sure at what point Rick had become their personal cook, but there were always plenty of snacks in the fridge and he made a mean beet and feta tart, which got packed in Floyd’s lunchbox. How he’d ended up taking a lunchbox to work was another change he wasn’t entirely sure about, except Zoe claimed it was for health reasons and Rick said it was good budgeting. 

 

While Rick was having fun with his newly-formed alliance, Floyd knew that he was in the honeymoon stage of childcare. Before long, Rick’s first real challenge loomed. 

A birthday party. At a bowling alley. With eighteen tween girls. 

It wasn’t Zoe’s birthday, it was her classmate Ashleigh’s. Ashleigh’s mother worked at a nicely-sized hedge fund that Floyd knew Amanda would love to have as a client, so when she needed another parent to help out at the party, Floyd was happy to volunteer his services. By “his services”, he meant he would help eat burgers and fries and keep an eye on the lanes while exchanging precious gossip with the other parents, and Rick could do the dirty work. 

Rick spent a week prepping. He read every Yelp review of the bowling alley, found out the hygiene rating of the restaurant attached to it, scouted out the building for potential fire hazards, and spot-checked the street crossing for safety. 

On the day of the party, Floyd and Zoe parked the car and walked over to see Rick standing outside the alley, chewing on a toothpick, glaring around the street as if he dared someone to make trouble. Walking up to him, Floyd said, “You know how shady you look, right? If you weren’t white, you would be on a terror list by now.”

Zoe said, “Hello Rick, are you looking forward to the bowling?”

“Hey,” Floyd chided her. “Don’t get too cozy with the help.”

The other mothers there were instantly dazzled by Rick, and Floyd suspected it was less because of the deftness with which he doled out rented shoes and bowling balls to a maelstrom of pre-teens, and more because of how good he looked bent over, showing them how to throw the ball with maximum impact. 

“Where did you find him?” Mrs Adams-Sakamura wanted to know. “Bridgette’s Manny was Venezuelan, but he left us to go and work for a tech start-up.”

Ashleigh’s mom, Edie, was openly staring. “He’s just so... tall. Did you say he’s military trained?”

Floyd puffed out his chest a little. Wasn’t often you impressed a clique of Gotham’s power moms. “He’s an ex-Colonel, actually. An officer and a gentlemanny.”

Murmurs of appreciation followed, increasing in volume as Rick bent down and carefully re-tied Zoe’s laces for her so she didn’t have to put down her bowling ball. 

 

The next weekend, Floyd had a talk with Zoe, who was enthusiastic about his idea. He said to her, “Remember, he might say no.”

“But Daddy, it would be so much better if he did.”

Floyd smiled. “Of course it would, sweetie, but grown-ups don’t always do what’s best for them.”

They heard Rick coming into the apartment. Floyd had texted him that morning, asking him to pop by if he had a second. “Hey Rick.”

“Hey, Zoe. Floyd. Can I be of assistance?” 

Floyd had thought about this, and decided a quick, blunt approach was best. “Zoe and I think you should move in with us.”

Zoe clapped her hands together, and smiled up at Rick, who looked perplexed. 

“I don’t, I mean, I’m not sure, it’s not part of our original agreement.”

Piping up, Zoe said, “The spare room’s free, it’s not like Dad has any friends to stay over.”

“I do too have friends, li’l bit, they just don’t do sleepovers. But anyway, the room’s right there so someone might as well use it.” 

Rick was gripping his hands tightly together. Floyd recognised the signs of panic in his eyes. 

“Hey Zee, could you go into the kitchen for a sec? I wanna talk with Rick alone. Go get some iced tea ready for us, huh?”

Once she’d left, Floyd leaned in to Rick’s space. “Look, don’t front. I know you’re living in your car. If you don’t want to stay here, at least let me provide you with a reference for an apartment or something.” 

Rick met his eyes briefly, then looked away. “I’m not asking for charity. I can pay rent.”

“Well, now, Zoe and I discussed this, and as you’re doing all the cooking for us but it hasn’t shown up on your timesheets, I think that counts as rent. And I’ll take that ten bucks I won off you in chess last week as your deposit.”

Rick squirmed. Floyd backed off, and said “Don’t think of it as charity, anyway. Think of it as making Zoe happy. She’s started to think I don’t eat a proper breakfast and wants you to check on me.” 

“You don’t eat a proper breakfast, there’s not enough essential amino acids in your diet and I want you to quit those Frappucino things - _fine_. Fine. But we renegotiate in three months.”

“Three months.” They shook hands, and Floyd silently vowed to start drinking his Frappucinos at work.

 

Once he moved in, Rick began borrowing books from the pile Zoe bought back from the library, claiming that he had to vet them for content. Sometimes Floyd would catch him curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket and completely engrossed in a manga or supernatural romance. 

“What’s that one, vampires or werewolves?”

“Selkies. They transform themselves into seals.”

Floyd held his hands up. “Hey, I know what a selkie is. I dated this new age healer once, listened to more Enya than could possibly be healthy.” 

“You shouldn’t let Zoe near this one. It’s poorly written, and the sex scenes are unrealistic. ”

“ _Sex scenes_? Like hell she’s seeing that. Burn it when you’re done. Get it out of the house.” 

“It’s part four of five. I need to find out what happens.” 

“Goddamnit, man, let me buy you a Nook.”

 

On his Zoe-less weekends, Floyd still went to brunch, where he could bitch about having “the Martha Stewart edition of G.I. Joe” working for him and get approximately zero sympathy.

“So he packs your lunch, cleans your house, and gets on with your daughter? What is the problem?” Tatsu asked, genuinely confused. 

“The problem is, I get no respect in my own house. I forget to use a coaster, it’s like the drill sergeant scenes in Full Metal Jacket.” He mimed Flag’s speech, “‘Cease and desist! Don’t you want to preserve the walnut veneer! I polished that with bee venom for five hours yesterday!’ Nag, nag, nag.”

“It was beeswax, and it didn’t take five hours, for the record.” Flag was sitting opposite Floyd eating an omelette and looking unrepentant. He continued, “And you’re the one who paid for an antique French credenza, all I’m doing is protecting your investment.”

Harley laughed. “I like this guy, Floyd. Maybe I’ll get him to run his duster around my delicates.”

Digger leaned forward. “If your dainties need taking care of, Quinn, I’m willing to offer my services _pro bono_.”

“How about you call me? It’s 1-800-Eat-A-Dirt-Sandwich.” Harley looked around and spoke in a mock whisper. “Speaking of calling, did I tell you Ivy texted me? Should I text her back?”

The entire table yelled back at her, “YES!”

 

The Winter Olympics were in Kasnia that year. One evening, Floyd invited Rick to watch the Biathlon with him. “It’s cross-country skiing and shooting.”

“Right, one of your favorite things. And skiing.”

“Ever tried to shoot on a pair of skis? Hard work.”

Rick grunted at that, and settled back into the couch cushions. Pouring a little of the Blanton’s Original he’d been drinking into another whiskey glass, Floyd handed it to him. They clinked a toast to the one American in the competition, who was currently coming 11th. 

Rick observed, “He’s competing like he wandered on to the course by accident and has no idea why there are all these TV cameras following him.” 

“Like, ‘I just came here for a package holiday, and someone handed me a gun? And told me to head for the finish line?’ Oof!” 

The American had fallen over. They both let out sympathetic moans, followed by gales of laughter. 

The whiskey went down as quickly as the fallen skier, and at some point during the curling semi-finals it seemed like a great idea for them to arm wrestle. Floyd took up commentary duties. “And the debonair, handsome competitor from Gotham City - Floyd Lawton, universally favored - is winning,”

Their fists twisted where they were clenched between them, balanced on the coffee table. Rick huffed and gained a couple of inches. Floyd continued, “The underdog contestant, Rick Flag, has made no real impression on the crowd,”

“Like hell, I’m winning!”

Floyd used his free hand to poke Rick in the ribs. Rick let out a short, “Aaah!”

Taking advantage, Floyd thumped Rick’s fist to the tabletop. “And it’s Lawton for the gold! World record! Cue national anthem!”

“Appeal! Appeal!”

“Appeal these nuts, Flag. I’m going to get my picture on the Wheaties box.”

“Best of three, or I’m demanding blood tests.”

Floyd shook his head. “Such cynicism is just another example of how the Olympic spirit has been compromised in this corrupt age.”

Rick lunged for his arm, intent on resuming the match, and Floyd instinctively dragged him forward over the table into a wrestling grasp. Pushing the coffee table aside, Rick tried to counter him by wrapping his arms around Floyd’s torso, and they rolled around the carpet. Floyd let himself grapple back, trying to get enough purchase to noogie Rick without actually hurting him. It gave him an adrenaline buzz that cut through the languor of the whiskey, being matched against someone with similar strength levels. Rick was built long and rangy, and without fighting Floyd with any brutal intent, he let his whole body get into their puppydog wrestling. 

Even drunk, Floyd realised that if Rick chose to, he could lay Floyd out. Floyd was in shape and he boxed weekly, but Rick was battle-ready. Which led to Floyd’s next tactic: trying to tickle Rick. He was flat on the floor with his legs caught up in Rick’s, and it was just so easy to slide his hands up Rick’s baggy t-shirt and play his fingers up and down his ribs. 

Rick couldn’t stop himself from giggling, grumbling, and snorting, all in a matter of seconds. His next response was to pin Floyd’s arms to his sides using his own, clasping the two of them together to rock back and forth on the carpet. 

They were both panting hard by the time they came to a mutual realisation, that at some point their dicks had got interested in all this friction and the tumbling around had progressed to a basic form of dry humping. Floyd’s brain was catching up on this as his hips pushed forward into Rick’s, but he kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling and let himself keep grinding. It just felt so good, and it had been a while. Clearly, Rick was on the same page, as his forehead was pressed into Floyd’s shoulder and he was pushing back in an awkward rhythm that reminded Floyd of his first teenage sexual fumblings. 

Floyd laughed, loud and brash, and flipped them to their sides, banked up against the couch. He moved one hand to lightly prod Rick’s jaw up and make him look Floyd in the eye. 

“Been a while, Flag?”

Rick just panted, his long eyelashes eventually fluttering with acknowledgement. He lifted his leg to wrap around Floyd’s hips more solidly. 

Floyd continued, “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of your impeded state, wouldn’t be sportsmanlike - ”

“Since when have you cared about sportsmanship?”

“You accusing me of playing dirty - _mmfgh_?”

Rick shut him up by sticking his tongue in Floyd’s mouth in a wet, open, kiss that made up for what it lacked in sophistication with its urgency of purpose. 

If that was a challenge - it felt to Floyd like a challenge - Floyd was not going to say Uncle. That was not how he played at all, especially in situations which felt as good as this one right now did. Casting aside any residual concerns, he pushed back into the kiss as he moved Rick’s shirt up his back with one arm and stuck another hand down his shorts to grip at Rick’s hip. 

In response, his own clothes were grabbed at and pushed in various angles, until their bellies met, the heated skin-on-skin contact making Floyd groan into Rick’s mouth. 

They spun over on their sides, and Rick broke away as he nearly cracked his head on the coffee table. 

Floyd held on extra tightly to Rick’s hips and said, “Woah, watch it.”

“I _am_ watching it - ”

“Well you didn’t look like it for a second - ”

Rick looked down at him, face flushed and pupils blown. “And you’re judging me why?”

“The mouth on you! I should write you up for disobedience to management,”

“You want disobedience? Go fuck yourself, boss.”

Howling with laughter, Floyd pushed himself up to his knees and plucked the t-shirt from where it was bunched at Rick’s shoulders, pulled it over his head and threw it in the direction of his bedroom, followed by his belt and shoes. “Servant! My house is covered in your clothes. Go pick ‘em up.”

Rick dragged Floyd closer with a handful of his own shirt. “When you’re naked, too, which - why aren’t you naked?”

“Finally, you’re showing some dynamic thinking. Remind me to add it to your workplace assessment.” Floyd took his shirt off and hauled Rick in, stumbling to his feet. He felt great. This was like being in the boxing ring, or the dance floor, or like that time he and Rick played one-on-one and Floyd knew he could make his shot. In this case, his shot was getting Rick unclothed somewhere with enough space to really appreciate the view. His brain reminded him that he had a large bed just yards away that would be perfect for the purpose. 

Clinging to each other, they staggered to the bedroom, trying to maintain both balance and the maximum amount of skin contact. By the time the got to the foot of his bed, Floyd’s pants were around his knees, which made it too easy for Rick to tip him onto the mattress and climb astride him. 

He growled down at Floyd, “Been thinking about messing up these sheets since I first made this bed.”

Floyd panted, “Big talk. Gonna follow through?” 

Rick was done with using his mouth for talking, and bent down to attach his lips to Floyd’s chest. Floyd grasped at Rick’s back, broad and muscled, his rippling spine, and ground up where their hips were locked together. Flicking his fingers under the waistband of Rick’s shorts, he peeled them off. Rick licked up the center of his sternum and looked down at Floyd. “Let me see - I wanna - ”

“Go for gold, my man.” Floyd liked showing off his body. It was a damn fine body. He couldn’t blame Rick for wanting to appreciate it, and he was 100% on board with Rick’s expressions of admiration as he worked back down Floyd’s chest, his fingers kneading at his abs and sliding along the cut of his hips, followed by some enthusiastic activity by his mouth. 

Dispatching of Floyd’s underwear, Rick regarded his cock, wrapping first one, then two hands around it. 

“Like what you see?” Floyd felt a wave of self-satisfaction wash over him. 

Rick looked back to him, laughing, but with his hands staying steady and firm. “You are so full of yourself, Lawton.”

He was, and he was also drunk, giddy, and horny, so he grabbed for Rick’s not-inconsiderable erection and locked their hands together. It was like the arm wrestling before, but better, because it was sex, and Rick had really nice hands to go with his really nice cock. He also took suggestion well, licking his palms and leaning forward to move them in a frantic rhythm. It was almost too fast for Floyd’s taste, but the sight of Rick straining - the muscles on his arms flexing, the redness of his bitten lips, the sensation between them of an itch finally, firmly getting scratched - was more than enough to carry him over. He grasped at Rick’s forearms as he came, happy to see his jizz hit Rick’s firm belly. 

Rick was clearly pretty happy too, as he kept up one, two, three strokes and was spending all over Floyd, sighing deeply. Floyd watched the tension finally leave his face, and his last vision before passing out was of Rick looking carefree. 


	2. Chapter 2

Floyd woke with a fuzzy head and the feeling of his bedclothes disappearing. Someone was loudly barking in his ear. “Up. Get up.”

The voice was clearly Rick’s, and he sounded impatient. Cracking his eyes open, Floyd saw him standing at the side of the bed, fully dressed, in his drill sergeant pose. Floyd wondered if this was when they had to have the awkward conversation. 

“I need to change these sheets.”

Floyd replied, “How about breakfast in bed? I could really go for some bacon. We got any maple syrup?”

“Eat this.” Rick threw a pillow at his head. “Now get up, it’s nearly nine. You’re disrupting my laundry schedule.”

Awkward conversation over. Floyd swung his legs out of bed and walked, naked, to the bedroom door. He turned around in time to see Rick checking out his ass. 

“You put some coffee on, Flag?”

Rick began pulling the sheets off the bed ferociously. “Of course I did.”

“Great work. Remind me to nominate you for employee of the month.” 

Employees of the month generally didn’t tell their poor, beleaguered, hungover bosses to go fuck themselves, but then Rick Flag wasn’t the most orthodox of workers. 

 

The expected awkwardness never eventuated. Rick kept doing the cleaning and cooking, joined Floyd at the gym and on the ball court, and continued to favor Zoe’s instructions over Floyd’s, despite Floyd’s emphasis on the Lawton Chain of Command. 

Monday night became their night. Floyd had previously always struggled with Mondays. It was the first day after Zoe had left after her weekend, too soon in the week to start drinking, and it Leg Day at the gym. So he’d gotten in the habit of getting home on Monday evening and putting on stretchy pants, making mac’n’cheese, and watching Netflix on the couch. Now all that had changed was that the pants were freshly-laundered and extra fluffy, the mac’n’cheese was some sort of fancy gourmet version Rick had gotten a recipe for (“Smitten Kitten” he’d muttered once when Floyd questioned him, then gave him a look which suggested that if Floyd wanted his mac’n’cheese to keep coming, he better not make any jokes), and the couch had another occupant, one who had surprisingly strong feelings about the latest season of _The Good Wife_. 

Then the dishes would get swept away and Floyd would answer some emails on his phone and brush his teeth, before padding into the kitchen and swatting Rick with a dish rag until he stopped cleaning. Sometimes he’d sit up on the kitchen counter and commentate on Rick’s obsessive use of tupperware or the regimented order of the spice rack, until Rick stood between his legs and threatened to quit because of workplace bullying. Then Floyd would wrap his calves around him and drag him close. One way or another, they’d roll themselves into Floyd’s room and fall on to the bed. 

Floyd liked lying Rick on his back and pressing those ridiculously long legs of his apart, holding him under the knees and rocking into his ass, fucking him slow and deep, all of Rick’s taut belly and neck exposed, so he could watch him writhe around in embarrassment and pleasure. 

Rick’s neck was the most revealing part of his anatomy, more so than his dick or his face. Not that Floyd minded being up close with Rick’s penis or looking into his eyes, quite the opposite, but when he tipped his head back Floyd felt that he was as close to Rick as he could possibly be. 

Afterwards, Rick would stumble off to the shower and then to his room, but sometimes he would stay in bed with Floyd. It bothered Floyd less than he’d thought. Generally, he hated sharing beds, but Rick slept very neatly, probably used to cramped conditions, Floyd guessed. When Rick stirred in his sleep, unsettled by something marching heavily through his unconscious, Floyd found that rubbing his scalp lightly would gentle him. He even allowed the occasional arm to creep over to his side of the mattress and curl around his chest. 

On the weekends that he didn’t have Zoe, Floyd amused himself by getting Rick drunk on unusual liquor. When he discovered that he had never tasted real French Champagne, he went a little overboard and ordered a whole crate. Rick told him that it was an unnecessary expense and lectured him about fiscal responsibility, and sent all of it back before Floyd had even had a sip. 

“Fine, that was your birthday present though, so don’t expect anything else from me.”

Rick glared at him. “How do you know my birthday?”

Floyd knew his birthday, as well as the number of points on Rick’s driver’s license, the amount of money he’d donated to a no-kill dog shelter, his blood type, and names of all the officers on the panel at Flag’s court martial, because of the intelligence dossier Amanda had completed on him for Floyd’s benefit. 

He swatted Rick on the arm. “It was on the resume you gave me, dumbass. I do numbers for a living, remember?”

In the end they went out for Rick’s birthday dinner with Chato and Harley to a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place with a selection of tequila that would daunt a lesser man. 

“Woooosh!” Harley threw back her eighth shot. “Happy birthday Ricardo! What do you wish for?”

Rick spun his emptied shot glass around the table top. “Maybe another one of those chimichangas.” 

“A,” Floyd pointed out from the edge of his own glass, “you have already eaten like five of those, and B, that is not very ambitious.”

“Yeah, wish for world peace or a car made out of chocolate or a Moschino handbag, you know - something good.”

“Harley,” Floyd said, “What would Rick do with any of those things? He’s ex-army, he doesn’t want world peace.”

“Or a handbag,” Chato added.

“Okey doke, he could give the handbag to me, eat the car, and the whole fun of world peace is messing it up again. But, Rick, you’d look cute with a nice bag.”

Rick shook his head. “Just because I’m in the domestic maintenance profession, you bring up the handbag.”

“Would clash with his apron, anyway.” Floyd shoved a handful of corn chips in his mouth and leaned back to clap Rick on the back. 

Harley squeed at that, then fixed her eyes on Rick. “So why’d you leave the army, anyway?” 

Instantly, Floyd felt Rick’s ease dissolve, like salt and lime on the tongue. He didn’t answer at first, tapping his glass on the tabletop a couple of times. Floyd was about to say something, crack a joke about career mobility being better in his kitchen than the military, when Rick spoke. “I was court-martialed. Dishonorable discharge. That’s why I, I found it hard - to get a job, at first. A lot of shit got talked about me, my reputation went down the toilet. I came to Gotham because I needed a place for a fresh start.”

“Well, when you’ve gone through the toilet, Gotham is like a great big beautiful bidet.” Harley made everything sound chipper. “And I hate to break up this party, my dudes, but I have a smoking hot date with his -” she pointed at Chato, “boss. And some silk ropes, and a bottle of olive oil. See ya!”

She climbed out of the booth and strolled over the table tops to the doorway. Rick turned to Chato, who looked pained. “What, does it bother you, having to hear about Ivy’s love life?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m trying to understand her, though.”

Floyd laughed. “Harley? Don’t try to understand, just go along for the ride. She’s more like a rollercoaster than a reasonable person.”

Chato tilted his head. “But what the fuck is a bidet?”

 

After Chato’s vocabulary lesson, the two of them took a cab home, letting the cold night air sober them up a little. Floyd wanted to get Rick into bed, wanted to take his mind off the past and get him to lose a little control. 

Inside the apartment, Rick insisted they both drink two tumblers of water each before letting Floyd undress him and push him on to the fresh sheets. 

Rolling him onto his chest, Floyd let his hands soothe up and down Rick’s flanks, then grabbed handfuls of that astonishing ass. It was nearly, Floyd reckoned, as nice as his own. Spreading him out, Floyd hummed happily as he bit and licked over the firm muscles, wondering at the softness of the skin there compared to Rick’s calloused fingers and joints. He let his beard nestle in the cleft of Rick’s ass, pushed his thumbs into the dimples - honest-to-god dimples! - in the small of his back, and licked a long stripe down over his hole. Pointing his tongue, he edged around it, coaxing him open under his mouth with spit and persistence.

Rick’s back and leg muscles quivered, and his breath hitched. Floyd never asked, but he had a strong hunch that Rick’s previous experiences in the sack, with men, at least, hadn’t been very generous. Being the recipient of Floyd’s aggressively-bestowed pleasure still took him by surprise, and sometimes made him retreat into silence. Now, he was burying his face in the pillow, his hands tightly fisting the sheets as tremors shook his legs. Moving up to blanket his back, Floyd kissed the top of his spine and said softly, “This OK?”

Rick made a “Hmmffth” sound. Not enough for Floyd. He wanted to nudge him into getting a little more verbal about what he liked. 

“You not used to it, huh?”

The answer came almost whispered out in an exhale. “No,”

Floyd rubbed at his thighs, “Feels good?”

Rick was still for a moment, stiff all over, then something gave way and he turned his head so that Floyd could make out his face. “Mmm.”

That was all the vote of confidence that Floyd needed. Nibbling his way down Rick’s spine, he settled more firmly between his thighs and was thankful again for the firmness of his superking mattress. 

“You’re gonna enjoy this,” Floyd murmured into the valley of Rick’s ass as he grabbed it with his hands and licked a long stripe down from the dip in his back to his taint. Rick responded with a gargle, which Floyd added to his mental rolodex of Optimal Rick Flag Noises as he licked back up and around towards Rick’s core. Spreading his ass further and forcing his hips to tilt forwars for maximum access, he got his lips good and wet and pursed them over the furls of skin that were already pinking up with beard burn. 

He sucked at the surrounding flesh in a steady loop, getting a thumb down to the spot behind RIck’s balls where the extra spit was collecting. Making a point with his tongue he began gentle stabs into the entry point, keeping it wet and sloppy. Rick’s body was heaving with harsh breaths and his shaking thighs twitched in Floyd’s grasp. 

Moving his head back up, he asked rhetorically, “First time?”

Rick growled back in response. It was obvious that he was concentrating on not freaking out, and Floyd was grateful for the tequila in Rick’s system for making his tells - the crinkling of skin around his eyes, the hunch of his shoulders, the puppy-like whimpers coming from the back of his throat - ten times more obvious than they were in Rick’s usual rigid control. 

Floyd kept licking in, maintaining a steady rhythm but not delving any further with his fingers and deliberately neglecting Rick’s hard-on, apart from checking that he was stiff as a board. Floyd wanted Rick to come from this alone, and tugged a little on his balls to encourage him. Rick’s hips shuddered, and he swore out loud, then came as he collapsed on to his forearms. 

Rising up, Floyd moved to drape over Rick’s back and let his dick slide into the slickened channel between his ass. It was easy to rock his hips along there, from the gap between Rick’s thighs to the silky skin, catching on the ridge of his hole as a tease. But he was feeling too languid to do anymore than just rub off there, looking at the twist of Rick’s neck on the pillow and the lines of his shoulders. Floyd bent to create a red ring of hickeys on his left shoulder blade. Let Rick explain that one at the gym. 

After shooting a mess all over the skin he’d marked up, Floyd levered himself off of Rick and crashed on his back, looking up at the ceiling and feeling satisfied with the range of employee’s birthday benefits he’d provided.

“You didn’t think to bring a towel, did you?”

Rick had lifted up from the pillow to glare at Floyd. His face flushed with booze, exertion, and mild annoyance. Floyd folded his hands behind his head. “Of course not. Towels are the responsibility of the domestic help. And you’re welcome, Flag.”

 

Amanda had left a message with Floyd’s assistant to invite him to lunch with her. That wasn’t ever a request, it was a demand. At two o’clock, he arrived at her favorite restaurant, an upscale French bistro where they specialised in truffle-infused lobster and discretion. Walking to the table, Floyd spotted two senators and a mob boss at various tables, and as he got near Amanda’s table he saw that she already had company. 

As Floyd approached her, Bruce Wayne was standing up and shaking her hand farewell. Floyd got there just in time to get a head nod from Wayne as he walked off. They’d never formally met, but Floyd had seen him across the room at parties and board meetings. Guy had always seemed like a flake, but today he wore an expression of deep seriousness. Floyd wondered what Amanda had told him she knew. 

“Even trustafarian playboys have secrets, I guess?”

Amanda didn’t even twitch an eyebrow at that. “Mr. Wayne isn’t as clueless as you may think. No one stays alive in Gotham high society for that long without developing their own survival techniques. We may be doing some work for him next quarter.”

Floyd exhaled as he unrolled his napkin. Right, so this was a big work assignment. An audit of a company the scale of Wayne Enterprises could take months, if not an entire year, depending on what he was looking for. 

“But this isn’t about him.”

“It’s not?” Floyd laid the menu down on the table. “What did you want you walk about?”

“Colonel Rick Flag.”

At that moment the server came by, and Floyd was too rattled to order. 

“What did you find?” Floyd was terrified. If there had been something they had missed in the initial background check - like if Rick was a serial killer or a foreign spy or something - it had to be bad. 

“It’s not bad.” Amanda picked up a bread roll and began to butter it. Her voice remained level. “It may even be good. It’s certainly useful.”

Floyd settled back in his chair. ‘Useful’ could mean several things by Amanda Waller’s standards, but if Zoe was in any danger, she would’ve advised him immediately, not taken him out to lunch.

She put the butter knife down. “The court martial was run in an unusual fashion. They hustled Flag out as quickly as possible, and smeared his name. You remember the documentation we found about the case - it concluded that Flag had allowed crucial intel be compromised due to incompetence in the field.”

“Yeah.” It had sounded strange to Floyd even then, that the rigid man he’d seen wiping the counter in a grid pattern had been found guilty of being sloppy at work. But everyone had weak moments under pressure, Floyd knew that; hell, it was part of his job to figure out just when people had weakened. “And shortly after he was landed with his mother’s health care bills, wiping out his savings. He had a bad run. Guy was under a lot of stress.”

“Stress had nothing to do with it. The incident he was written up for was a cover-up to protect the real source of the leak. The same source has connections with Flag’s mother’s health insurance company - they cooked up paperwork claiming she had a pre-existing condition, one she was never treated for by any doctor, but a doctor’s name appeared on the insurance company’s forms. The doctor was under the pay of the source of the intelligence breach.”

“Who is?” And could Floyd shoot them?

“A General that Flag served under. He was invested in a real estate development in Coral City that was going bankrupt and he needed cash. So he did a deal with the wrong people, promising them military secrets.”

“And so he ruined Rick’s life. To cover his own ass.”

Amanda looked almost amused. This was what fired her up - working out the dirty secrets behind other people’s fuck-ups. Usually, it was something Floyd enjoyed, too, but not when the victim was living in his spare room and had imparted a delightful blow job to him the night before. 

Floyd set his fists down on the table and forced himself to unclench them. “We can fix this, right?”

The server arrived with Amanda’s lobster. She looked down at it, smiled, then looked back at Floyd. “I thought you’d want to be the one who made the call. The phone number is in a file you’ll find on your desk when you get back to the office. Now, Floyd, do you want to stay for lunch or leave now?”

Floyd was already out of his seat. “Enjoy your meal, Amanda.”

She raised her glass in a little toast as he ran out. 

 

Floyd was waiting to hear the front door open. He shuffled around the apartment, picking things up and putting them down again. When he heard the locks clicking, he snapped to attention and headed to the hallway. Rick was coming in with armfuls of groceries. Floyd noticed that he’d remembered to take the canvas eco-shopping bags that Zoe was always nagging Floyd to use. “Here, give me one of those.”

“Hi? I’ve got them, it’s no problem. What are you doing here?”

Grabbing at the handles of a bag full of produce, Floyd shrugged, like it was nothing. “Home from work early. I’ll just put these in the kitchen, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

They walked into the kitchen together. Once he’d placed the bags down, Floyd pointed at the envelope on the counter. “You’re gonna want to take a look at that. It’s for you.”

Rick’s face creased with worry, then consideration. Floyd had told him a hundred times that if he was going to fire him, he’d hire a barber shop quartet or a strippergram to deliver the news, and besides, Floyd figured that Rick had to know there was no way Zoe Lawton would let her father do that. He had to have worked that out by now, hadn’t he? Floyd mulled it over in his head as Rick opened the envelope, doing it with infuriating care so that the edge wouldn’t rip. 

The document inside was several pages long, on embossed US Army paper. Floyd leaned back against the refrigerator and told himself to stay quiet. This wasn’t about him, this was about Rick. 

When Rick had scanned the pages he looked up, “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s from the Army. Reversing your discharge, granting you a full pardon. The ruling against you has been overturned.”

Rick shook his head. “That’s not - that’s not possible. I would have had to appeal, and - ”

“You’re being reinstated as a Colonel. The people behind your court martial are being dealt with, I understand, by some of the highest powers in the land. It’s being kept under wraps, as you can imagine - they don’t want it hitting the front page of _The Gotham Times_ that a corrupt General made a military hero homeless in order to protect his real estate investments.” 

Slamming the letter on the counter, Rick exploded. “Imagine? What I can _imagine_? No, I can’t imagine that, and this is sick, stupid joke.”

Floyd kept his voice low. “It’s not a joke. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“But what the hell - what happened?”

“Someone ratted out the top brass. I understand that when they went to arrest the General, he cried like a baby.” Floyd only wished he could have seen that. “Now, they want you to come talk with them. Negotiate your position, sort out a cover story, whatever you want. A car will come and pick you up as soon as you ask. You can go ahead and call the man who signed the letter,” Floyd pointed at it, “Lieutenant General Swanwick. He said he would take your call personally.”

“Calvin Swanwick is the goddamn Secretary of State.”

“And he’s one intense brother to talk to on the phone, I gotta say.”

Rick just stared at him, then gathered the letter to his chest and walked out. Floyd didn’t know what to do with that, so he made a whiskey on the rocks. Nudging the grocery bags with the toe of his shoe, he murmured, “I guess I’m going to get used to putting you away myself. And figuring out what the hell I’m meant to do with all this kale.”

 

The next day, Floyd went to pick up Zoe from school and had to explain to her why Rick wasn’t there. He tried to make it clear that they might not see Rick very much ever again, and steeled himself for getting used to the empty spare room and having to sort out the recycling himself. But on Saturday Rick let himself back in the apartment. Instead of his usual t-shirts and cargo pants, he was wearing dress blues. 

When she saw him, Zoe’s eyes widened and she ran over to hug him. “Rick! You’re back - I thought you were away forever. You look very important.”

Rick hugged her back and smiled, “No more important than I ever was.”

“Would you like some iced tea?”

Looking over at Floyd, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, Rick nodded yes. As his daughter moved past Floyd, he gave Rick a hard look - _if you’re still angry, say what you want to me, but not in front of my daughter_ \- and Rick nodded again. As they moved to follow Zoe, Floyd realised that he was the angry one, not Rick, who radiated calm. Now that his life was fixed, Floyd figured that he and Zoe were just footnotes to Rick. It was not a happy thought.

After taking a glass from Zoe, Rick cleared his throat. “May I please ask Zoe a question?” 

Zoe and Rick both looked at Floyd, who realised he was being asked to leave them alone. 

“Oh, oh, OK, I see how it is - I’m out!” 

He backed out of the room as Rick kneeled down to whisper something to Zoe. The two of them huddled together, and Floyd felt a sharp pang in his chest. There was one of the few people Floyd utterly trusted to be alone with his daughter, and God only knew what they were talking about because Floyd had been too short-sighted to bug his own kitchen. 

He turned in a circle in the hallway, his hands itching to go into his gun room and pull a rifle off of the rack and shoulder it, just to feel the reassurance of it in his hands. As a rule, the gun room door never opened when Zoe was there, and usually when his daughter was home Floyd didn’t need to be calm. Lately, just having Rick around meant he’d gone into the gun room less and less. 

Floyd was mentally scheduling in a trip to the shooting range as Zoe came out and tugged on his sleeve. He looked down at her. 

“You can come back now.”

“I can, can I? I am permitted to enter my own kitchen, huh?”

Zoe nodded, ignoring the petty tone of his voice and the little bow of deference he’d made. Floyd had no idea where she’d picked up the ability to stay calm and sincere in the face of sarcasm. It sure wasn’t from him or her mother. 

He continued to grumble the whole six paces it took to get back to the kitchen, where Rick was standing, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Floyd snapped, “You asked your question?” 

“Now I have to ask you for something.”

Zoe had placed herself to the side, standing by the kitchen counter with her hands clasped together, mirroring Rick’s pose. Floyd narrowed his eyes at her, sensing he was being set up, and she rolled hers back at him.

He huffed, “Hit me.”

Rick walked up to him, and Floyd crossed his arms instinctively. Taking his cap off, Rick held it behind his back and looked straight at Floyd. “I want you to fire me. Officially.”

“Really? _That’s_ what you want? Damn - OK. You, Mr. Colonel Richard Rogers Flag Jnr, have your employment here in the Lawton household _officially_ terminated from this moment onwards. Please pass on any inquiries about payroll and severance packages to your HR department over there,” he pointed to Zoe, “as you two have already had your exit interview, apparently.” 

Rick nodded. “Good. I needed you to do that.”

“Why?”

Moving closer, Rick smiled at him as Floyd realised with horrible certainty that Rick was going to kiss him in the immediate future, right there in front of his daughter, and that Floyd was going to let him.

“Because,” Rick leaned forward so that their faces were practically touching, “Zoe and I agreed. It would be just be too weird to ask my boss to marry me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the works of two American heroes, Frank Ocean and Jennifer Lopez.


End file.
